


don't weigh me down

by honeypuffed



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeypuffed/pseuds/honeypuffed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a heat wave, and Grantaire should probably not be at Enjolras' house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't weigh me down

And he has his head resting back against the couch, eyes closed, neck stretched and shiny with a thin sheen of sweat (everyone loves a heat wave), and suddenly Grantaire doesn’t care that this idiot has age-old artwork of the French Revolution plastering his walls like it actually still _means_ something to them, like he’s eager for it to happen again so they can be a part of something incredible (incredibly stupid), and Grantaire licks his lips and takes a deep breath; he feels heavy, from the heat perhaps but maybe not, as if all his limbs weigh twice as much, as if someone turned up the dial on the gravity in the room, as if he’s sinking further into the couch with every waking second and—

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says then, not opening his eyes, not lifting his head, and Grantaire watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he speaks and as he swallows.

“What?”

“Stop staring at me,” he says, and Grantaire opens his mouth but before he can protest, Enjolras adds, “I can _feel_ your eyes on me.” He opens his own then, and rolls his head to the side to look at Grantaire.

Even in this heat, even in this humidity, he still has the audacity to look stunningly beautiful, his hair perfectly in place, his cheeks just lightly dusted with pink. He blinks slowly, deliberately, and Grantaire scrunches his face and turns away.

“Whatever,” he mumbles, and sinks as far into the couch as he can. He’s a mess, he can feel it – his hair is sticking out in every direction, one disobedient curl turned in towards his eyes that he needs to blink away every so often, and he feels blotchy with warmth. Shouldn’t have come over, shouldn’t have agreed to visit in the middle of a heat wave. He squeezes his eyes shut and pretends that none of this is here.

“I have ice cream,” Enjolras says like he’s just had the most incredible of revelations. “ _I have ice cream_ ,” he repeats for emphasis.

And when Grantaire dares to open his eyes again, Enjolras is pushing up off the couch and gliding ( _gliding_ ) into the kitchen. Grantaire can just see him from the couch as he stuffs his head in the freezer and calls out, “God that feels fucking _amazing_.”

Grantaire has heard him say those words a thousand times over in his head, in the dark before sleep, and he has woken up as many times the next day and felt positively wretched for it, so hearing it here, out loud, in reference to the cold air of the freezer, somehow lifts a weight, and he starts laughing then and can’t stop. He peels himself away from the back of the couch and leans forward, curling in on himself as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

He hears the freezer door shut and he looks up, tears in his eyes, and Enjolras is leaning over the counter, staring at him in what is quite likely fascination. His skin prickles.

“What in God’s name are you laughing so hard about?” Enjolras asks, somewhere now between frowning and smiling, this bizarre contradiction of expressions that suits him all too well.

“You are ridiculous,” is Grantaire’s response, which honestly, doesn’t answer the question, at least not truthfully, but it seems to quell Enjolras’ curiosity for the time being.

Enjolras taps a spoon on the counter. “So, chocolate or vanilla?” He pauses. “Or both?” He shoots a heart-skipping grin at Grantaire.

“Both,” Grantaire says as calmly as he can, then he bites his lip and stands up. “Back in a sec.”

He makes his way to the bathroom to check out the state of himself – dreadful, as expected. He turns on the tap and splashes the cool water on his face, but it seems to turn hot at the touch of his skin, and thus, does not help in the slightest. He groans and looks back at himself in the mirror.

What a mess.

He needs to get home, but he can’t leave in the middle of ice cream, that would seem suspiciously like something was wrong, and Grantaire does not need Enjolras to think that, does not need him to realise he’s an even bigger mess than he already knows he is.

He splashes some more water on his face for good measure, and quickly dabs his face dry with a towel, before returning to his promised ice cream.

Turns out Grantaire’s portion is approximately double the size of Enjolras’. “Just how fat do you think I am?” He means to say it like a joke, because it is, but it comes out sort of strained, like he’s actually hurt, when he shouldn’t be because it’s not like he’s thirteen, for Christ’s sake.

Enjolras apparently doesn’t notice because he just says, “Oh no, I’ve already eaten half of mine.” He scoops another huge spoonful into his mouth and he visibly melts as he swallows is. “I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed ice cream this much in my life,” he swoons.

Grantaire just sits there with his spoon ready to eat, but he never does because he can’t stop _staring_ and his ice cream simply melts away. Soon he’ll be able to drink it. Enjolras ignores him completely, in favour of devouring his own bowl.

When he’s licking the spoon clean of the last bit of ice cream, he finally turns back to look at Grantaire, pausing with his mouth open and tongue out. He sucks the spoon into his mouth and pulls it back out, clean, licking his lips as he drops the spoon into the bowl and tosses it all on the coffee table. “Why aren’t you eating?”

Words fail him, so Grantaire just frowns instead.

“I’m starting to wish I’d invested in an air-conditioner now,” he goes on, when it becomes clear Grantaire’s forgotten how to speak. He licks his lips again—sticky from the ice cream, no doubt—then reverts to lying back against the couch with his eyes closed and his limbs all spread for maximum airflow.

“Fuck,” Grantaire says, and he doesn’t mean to, but there it is.

Eyes snapping open, Enjolras turns to look at him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s hot.” Then, “Mind if I grab a beer?”

Enjolras shrugs his approval, but doesn’t stop frowning.

In the kitchen, Grantaire shoves his head in the fridge and spews out a string of curses under his breath. He grabs out a beer, and when he’s sure Enjolras isn’t looking, he snags the bottle of vodka on the counter and takes a huge swig of it. It burns all the way down because it’s cheap crap, and he knows in the long run it’s just going to make him hotter and this day more unbearable, but he needs it right now. He takes another swig, then cracks open the beer and skulls that, then grabs another. “Did you want one?” he calls out, out of politeness, but Enjolras’ quiet _no thank you_ comes as no surprise.

He collapses onto the couch and holds the beer to his forehead.

Enjolras speaks then, quietly, and it sounds like _I’m sorry_ , but that makes no sense, so Grantaire responds, “Huh?” and Enjolras just shakes his head.

“Never mind.”

He drinks the beer at a reasonably speedy pace, and lies back, warming up now more than ever as the initial chill of the alcohol slowly dissipates. So, that much vodka was a bad idea. Or maybe, it’s rather, the vodka _in general_ was a bad idea.

“Fuck it’s hot,” he groans.

Enjolras jumps beside him. “What?”

“What?” Grantaire repeats when he sees Enjolras’ strangely frantic expression. “I said, fuck it’s hot?”

“Oh,” he relaxes again. “Yeah.”

They lapse into silence again, mostly comfortable, save for the way Grantaire just _wants_ him which has all his nerves on fire. Much as he tries, he can’t pry his eyes away from him, stuck staring at the way Enjolras shifts on the couch, swipes a hand across his forehead, licks his lips _again_.

The silence is broken when Enjolras speaks up. “You didn’t eat your ice cream.”

Grantaire looks at the bowl, now entirely liquid. “No.” He feels dizzy from the heat and from the alcohol, and before he has the chance to stop himself, he’s leaned over, grabbed the front of Enjolras’ shirt, and tugged him forward into a kiss. Enjolras’ lips are still sticky, and when he pulls back, he finds a bewildered look on Enjolras’ face.

He scoots away from him. “Sorry.” His heart belatedly catches up to everything and starts hammering in his chest. “Sorry, I’ll go.” He makes no move to stand up though, his body sluggish.

“Yeah,” says Enjolras. “Sorry.”

Grantaire closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his forehead. Fuck fuck _fuck_. Alcohol has not been doing him any good lately, and he makes a mental vow to give it up (he won’t). He’s hyper-aware of himself then, of his blotchy red skin, of his bird’s nest of hair, of the vodka and the beer and a cigarette from earlier on his lips, of his own general inadequacy—in all areas. “Sorry,” he says again, because no one as perfect as Enjolras deserves this. “Sorry,” he says again, because no one even substantially less perfect than Enjolras deserves this.

He stands up to leave and finds a hand on his wrist, pulling him back down.

“Actually don’t,” Enjolras blurts out, like if he doesn’t say it then, he’s not going to say it ever.

Grantaire falls back into the couch, confused, light-headed, and asks, “Don’t what?”

The hand on Grantaire’s wrist tightens and then loosens again, but does not let go.

“Don’t go. Just yet.” Enjolras lets go then, and shifts on the couch to put some space between them. “You should have your ice cream. It’s delicious.”

Grantaire gnaws on his bottom lip, eyes fixed on Enjolras. He doesn’t know what’s happening right now, but he doesn’t want to hope. Maybe this is just Enjolras’ way of saying _Don’t worry about it, we can still be friends_.

The thought breaks Grantaire’s heart, just a little (a lot).

He blinks and looks away to the bowl of melted ice cream. Might as well.

As he drinks the liquid ice cream, they lapse into a heavy silence. A bird begins to call outside, but stops in the middle, lazy from the heat, and Grantaire thinks, _yeah, I agree_. He could ask why, _why am I still here?_ but the thought of expending energy on a question he’s not sure even Enjolras knows the answer to... it just doesn’t seem worth it.

The last of the ice cream pours into his mouth, and he licks his lips clean.

“Good, right?” Enjolras says then, loud after the silence.

Grantaire doesn’t look over, just starts, “Yeah, actually it’s really—” but that’s as far as he gets before Enjolras’ hand is on his chin, turning his face so their eyes meet, and there’s one, two, three seconds and then Enjolras kisses him.

Stunned silence is an understatement.

Enjolras pulls back but an inch, pushes his hair away from his own eyes, and just looks at Grantaire. “Let’s go to the beach.”

Grantaire’s face pulls into relief and amusement and _joy_ and he starts to laugh. “Okay.”

Enjolras kisses him again, quickly, fondly, then jumps up. “I’ll grab the towels if you grab the beer.”

And Grantaire, star struck, just grins stupidly and nods.


End file.
